Going through the Motions
by Hanaasbananas
Summary: Constance thought giving up D'Artagnan was the hardest thing she'd ever have to do, but living with the man who forced her to do so is harder still. Canon divergence from 1x08 through to 1x10.


_Authors Note: This was first posted on AO3 in six instalments as I wrote them, but I'm cross posting it here as a one shot because that was the way it was originally supposed to be. This is my first Musketeers fic, so let me know what you thought! _

**Month One **

Constance has always hated silence. Growing up with three older brothers had meant that she hardly knew the meaning of the word.

Until now.

(For a short while, when the Musketeers had followed D'Artagnan into her house and filled it with the sound of boisterous laughter, tramping boots and the scrape of their scabbards against her walls, she was reminded of _home__—_even if the Musketeers took more care than her brothers ever did to censor their filthy jokes.)

It takes much longer now to reacquaint herself with the quiet tedium of being a draper's wife, now that she knows what adventures live just outside her doors, but Constance won't complain. Not the way she did when she first married and saw the years of tedium stretching out ahead of her like an eternity.

On particularly bad days, she curses him. It was true- her life with Bonacieux had never been unhappy. It hadn't been anything. But there was a comforting rhythm, a rigidity to the life she had carved out in her little corner of Paris. Perhaps she bemoaned the absence of love, but Bonacieux was good to her—if a little distant— so how could she miss what she'd never had?

And then a handsome Gascon farm boy had fallen at her feet, effortlessly upending all she'd worked for and dragging her into the life of love and adventure and _vitality_ she'd given up as a girlish dream.

What would have happened, she wonders, if she had ignored his declaration of love, had simply accepted his attempt to cover up his words? Or if she left him at the fishmongers? Never let him become a lodger? Would she have been happier in her ignorance, allowing the monotony of her life to wipe the memory of the day she nursed a reckless boy back to health?

But no. Knowing what would happen— the heartbreak, the love, the tears—she would always choose to do it again. How could she not, when he had looked at her like she hung the moon, like she was something beautiful to behold and cherish? The memory of those few short weeks would sustain her, even if she never saw him again. The memory of those few short weeks would have to sustain her, folded deep inside her heart where his love can soothe the festering wound she has inflicted on herself.

(She will gladly smother herself for eternity in his name. It will be worth it, just to know he still draws breath; is still free to walk the streets of Paris unharmed.)

And really, Bonacieux is a kind man, Constance reminds herself each morning. He is a kind man who did not turn her out—as he had every right to do— like the adulteress she is. She tries to remember that, as she suffocates in the silence that has descended upon her house; but this is her penance, and she will pay it.

**Month Two **

He's here.

Constance stands, transfixed as she watches D'Artagnan duck his head and laugh at something the baker's daughter has said. Madeleine has always been a flirt, enticing customers to return to her stall with the flutter of her eyelashes and a coy smile, but the hatred that blazes in Constance's chest surprises her.

She wants to march over and drag the girl from him, to scream that D'Artagnan is not there for the taking. Yet... D'Artagnan brushes his hand over the girls as he passes the coins, pausing just a second too long for it to be accidental, and suddenly she can't breathe.

Aramis stands beside him, shaking his head with a rueful grin and pats D'Artagnan in the back hard enough to send him stumbling into the table. He shoves Aramis in return and the two turn back towards the garrison. That's when Aramis sees her- his smile vanishing and narrowing into a hard, thin line and she knows, she just _knows _that he hates her. Loathes her for her callous treatment of his brother in arms. Constance feels tears prick at her eyes, but it is when D'Artagnan tugs on Aramis' shoulder that she turns away, wondering if he saw the shattering of her heart in her eyes.

She has to get out.

Constance shoves past people to get away, ignoring their shouts as she pushes through. The busy market is suddenly too much- too loud, too bright, too _crowded_. She just wants to get home where she can cry in the cool darkness of her own kitchen.

But then there is a gentle hand on her elbow, guiding her away from the crowd and Aramis is standing in front of her, looking down in concern.

"Constance" his voice is soft, questioning, eyes warm like melted chocolate as he regards her. _No wonder so many women love you_, she thinks hysterically, _how could one resist?_

Wrenching her hand from his, Constance musters as much indignation as she is able, hissing words at him that burn her tongue like lye "leave me _alone_, Monsieur. Me and him... there is nothing more to be said." She chances a glance over his shoulder where D'Artagnan is still talking to the baker's' daughter, no longer relaxed, standing stiffly as though forcing himself not to look back at the two of them.

Aramis follows her gaze, sighing and swinging an arm over her shoulders. "He misses you."

"Well he shouldn't."

Constance turns to leave, scrubbing at her eyes furiously before she pauses, facing Aramis again. "It would do you all good to forget me."

* * *

"Did you do anything interesting today, Constance?" Bonacieux sounds nonchalant, not looking up from his plate as he slices into his meal. She doesn't answer immediately, staring across at him, mouth opening and closing in surprise- these are the first words he's spoken to her in at least a month, and now-he's looking at her expectantly, spoon poised in front of his mouth.

"I-" she blinks "ah, no. I had hoped to get fish, except I left late, and your favourite was gone"

They lapse back into the silence she has become so accustomed to, and Constance feels herself begin to relax again until-

"Do you take me for a fool?" his voice is measured, quiet, and she shivers imperceptibly, keeping her eyes trained on the plate in front of her. "The blacksmith saw you speaking with a Musketeer."

Constance feels herself go white, blood rushing so loudly in her ears she barely hears the words pouring out of her mouth in a rush, the only sound in the room as she hurries to reassure her husband. "It wasn't him! I swear it! It was Monsieur Aramis and I told him to leave me be and came straight home!"

Bonacieux sighs, shaking his head sadly "how can I trust you, Constance? What if you pass messages to your-" he spits "lover? No, no, this won't do. I shall simply have to pay a visit to the Cardinal in the morning"

"_No!"_ the word ursts from her before she can stop it, her only thought_ savehimsavehimsavehim_ pounding along with every beat of her racing heart. "_No! _Bonacieux, I swear, I'll do whatever it is you wish" she doesn't even notice the way she's gripped the table edge, knuckles turning white as she babbles her promises, her husband considering her thoughtfully.

"Well in that case…from now, I shall procure what you need from market myself" he bares his teeth in a grim smile, dark eyes gleaming. "It really would be best if you stayed inside."

Constance can only nod, her stomach sinking at the thought of this new confinement, but then -_D'Artagnan is safe. _

And that is enough.

**Month Three**

_There is blood on her hands. There is blood on her hands, and someone is wailing. Someone is wailing and it is her. It is her pressing down on D'Artagnan as he lays dying, his eyes wide and frightened, hand twitching over his stomach. "Constance we-" he pants, trying again "we are damned for love."_

_Bonacieux looms over her, nowhere and everywhere all at once, surrounding her, trapping her, his voice echoing around them. "This is all your fault Constance" a blood-soaked dagger falls at her feet. "You drove me to this"_

_She weeps over D'Artagnan, ripping her skirt to shreds so she can bandage his wounds and he reaches for her hands, stilling them. He brings her hand to his chest, laying it flat where she can feel the faltering thump-a-thump-a-thump of his heart. "This was yours and look what you have done" he squirms away from her as she weeps great gasping sobs, hatred burning in his eyes. "You are the most despicable woman I've ever met."_

"_Constance" Bonacieux is calling her but she can't go, not yet, she has to keep D'Artagnan alive. It doesn't matter, she'll let the baker's daughter have him, she'll let anyone at him if only he would _live_! She scrabbles towards him on her knees, rags clutched in her fist but is yanked backwards, Bonacieux's voice irritated as he pulls her away, out of the darkened street and-_

She jerks awake, shrinking away from Bonacieux's face above her. "Finally," he gripes "I couldn't sleep at all with that racket you were making"

"I-I'm sorry"

He only grunts in response, turning his back to her and settling down again, the dismissal clear. Her night terror is still fresh in her mind, even as her heartbeat settles back into it's steady rhythm and she rises, going to scrub at her hands until she can hardly feel them, as though it will get rid of the sensation of warm blood coating her fingers.

(It doesn't.)

The dreams have been coming more and more often, several times a night, and they take even longer to forget, her mind repeating D'Artagnan's words over and over until she can scarcely hear herself think and yet…she craves them, nonetheless.

Because it is still his voice.

Twisted and _hurting_ and telling her what she deserves to hear, but she doesn't mind because it is all she has left of him.

In her heart, she knows he would never say such things; knows that if he ever found out about her deal with Bonacieux he would burst into her house ready to confront him with the same fervour he fought three against one his first day in Paris.

But D'Artagnan is no match for the Cardinals machinations and she cannot, _will not_ let him die. Not while there is still air in her lungs; when she can trade her breaths for his.

Constance watches Bonacieux for a moment, willing herself to become accustomed to the sight as she hears him begin to snore lightly. She can't imagine D'Artagnan cares a whit for her any more-if the way he flirted with the baker's daughter is any indication- and this is her life now.

She must learn to accept it.

**Month Four**

"Mother asks if you have any more of this?" Constance blinks, surprised as a large scrap of fabric is thrust in her face.

"My husband isn't here at the moment-" lowering the material, she stops short, coming face to face with the baker's daughter. "Perhaps you should come back later."

"I can wait" Madeleine leans forward, lowering her voice to a murmur "Monsieur Aramis told me to ask after you."

Of course.

She thinks about it a moment, glancing around quickly for prying eyes; the flutter of a curtain, an open window…the blacksmith is nowhere near her house but she's not entirely sure Bonacieux _hasn't_ asked the neighbours to keep a look out.

"Very well" she says loudly, ushering the girl inside "you can wait for my husband in the parlour."

With the door firmly shut behind them, Constance turns to Madeleine, hands on her hips "why did Aramis send you?" _Is it because they have replaced me with you? In their adventures and in D'Artagnan's heart?_

The girl flinches at her tone and Constance softens, stepping closer even as Madeleine avoids her gaze. "I am in perfect health, as you can see; there is no reason for concern."

"That's what I told him, but" Madeleine bites her lip, cheeks colouring "well, it was the least I could do, since they pass my letters to my…" she stutters "my sweetheart."

Constance exhales, the vice grip around her heart loosening at the words. "Sweetheart?" she enquires, and the girl lights up with excitement, following behind Constance while she goes back to preparing dinner.

"Yes! Pierre is training to be a musketeer, so hasn't the time to get away; and my parents do not allow me to see him in the evenings, so we pass correspondence."

Ah, young love. She's about to ask Madeleine to sit down when the front door bursts open and her husband's voice rings out, coiled tight with rage.

"Constance!" Bonacieux calls stopping short when he notices their company "and who is this?"

"Madame Dufour sent her daughter for an order. I was just keeping her company"

"Will you excuse us?" Bonacieux sends the girl a tight smile and her eyes flick between the two of them before she scurries out into the hall. The two of them stand awkwardly across the room from each other until they hear the faint slam of the front door and suddenly-

He is in front of her grabbing at her arm. "Is this what you do when I'm not home?" Bonacieux hisses, grip tightening painfully as he leans in closer. "You invite people here? do you invite _him?_"

"Of course not" she tries to keep her voice steady, even as the breath hitches in her throat at the way he twists her arm. "You can't have expected me to turn away a paying customer. Especially not now"

"Yes, and whose fault is _that_, hm?" Bonacieux's fingers tighten on hers and she bites back a gasp, trying to wrench her arm free.

"Boancieux, let _go_, you're hurting me!"

"I'm hurting _you_? And what of _my_ feelings?" his eyes are wild and for the first time, Constance truly fears her husband. "You certainly enjoyed flaunting your affair, didn't you? Letting people call me a _cuckold!_" his hand cracks across her face at the last word, snapping it back with the force of the blow and releasing her from his grip.

Black spots dance in front of her vision and Constance notes with mild surprise that she has fallen. There is a ringing in her ears and Bonacieux's voice comes from a distance, dripping with contempt. "No Red Guard will say I cannot control _my_ wife" and then the door slams shut, and he is gone.

Constance stays on the ground, bringing a hand up gingerly to her stinging cheek. She can feel the bruise blooming where she hit her head and she tastes blood from Bonacieux's ring cutting her lip.

It's a good thing she can't go out, she muses grimly. Or the gossips would have even more to talk about, and lord knows they have enough already, if their stories are reaching her husband through the _Red Guards_.

"Madame!" the exclamation startles her, followed by a flurry of skirts in her periphery. Madeleine is still here then. "Oh my-" the girls hands flutter uselessly about her until Constance grasps one and pulls herself up, leaning wearily against the table.

"I'm fine. I'm fine" she mumbles, wincing when the words pull at the cut on her lip. "There are wives who endure much worse and deserve it far less. Pass me that handkerchief, will you?" she watches Madeleine try to hide her trembling hands, eyes looking everywhere but at her face, white with terror.

"Go home, Madeleine." She sounds defeated, even to her ears, but Constance can't bring herself to care. "This has nothing to do with you"

* * *

Later, as she's examining the damage in the mirror, Constance remembers his words. _You, shine so brightly in my eyes, it puts every other woman in the shade._

She doesn't recognise the woman looking back at her anymore.

Her lip is swollen and scabbing over and her head throbs from the bruise forming above her eyebrow. But most of all she looks _tired_, shoulders slumping under invisible weight, her eyes glassy and unfocused.

_Would you say the same thing now, D'Artagnan? _She wonders, _or have I been snuffed out?_

**Month Five**

Constance doesn't cry aloud anymore.

Bonacieux thinks it unbecoming, and God knows she has sinned against him enough in this lifetime. Instead she throws herself into being a good wife. She gives her husband no chance to complain, preparing only his favourite meals; mending his clothes before he notices they are fraying; cleaning every inch of their house until it is spotless and gleaming.

Most importantly though, she ensures that she is ready when he visits her bed— more frequently than ever before, and with a fervour he'd never before possessed. Because even with her renewed commitment to him, he senses it; her distance.

(She wonders if in time, he will stop trying to leave his mark, to erase the ghost of D'Artagnan's touch that lingers on her still, keeping her from him.)

Digging her fingers into the scratchy quilt beneath her, Constance stares up at the ceiling, desperately trying to remember the way D'Artagnan would worship every inch of her that he uncovered, his breath hot against her flushed skin.

They spent the night together, once—D'Artagnan and her. Bonacieux had gone trading in the next town over so D'Artagnan had taken full advantage, buying flowers for her hair, and procuring the best wine he could beg from Athos. Later, as they'd giggled like a pair of newlyweds, he'd swept her off her feet when she stumbled and carried her over the threshold into his room.

He'd danced with her, she remembers. Humming a tune he'd heard in court, D'Artagnan spun them around the room in a waltz, his hand warm in hers as he dipped her back, swallowing her breathless laughter with a kiss when she clutched desperately at his shoulders to keep from falling.

Now, she gets her husband's hand on her chin, pulling her face down to meet his eyes, forcing her to look and see the revulsion that she has inspired in him.

Afterwards, when Bonacieux lies spent by her side, she will dutifully take the herbs he gives her for nightmares and lie awake while he slumbers beside her, pressing her lips together tightly and feeling tears soak her face like a summer rain.

But for now, she closes her eyes and thinks of reverence in dying candlelight, feather light kisses down her neck and _you are my light_ murmured in her ear like a prayer.

**Month six**

"D'Artagnan just shot Athos. He's calling for you- he needs help!"

Constance is halfway out the door, poised to follow behind the girl when she freezes, a sudden thought occurring to her. How can she hope to expel herself from D'Artagnan's heart if she goes running when he calls for her? And what if her husband finds out she has broken free of her house arrest?

He will go straight to the Cardinal.

"Mademoiselle!" the girl is in front of her again, her eyes pleading, but Constance is already shaking her head, her mind made up. "We must hurry, come with me now!"

If D'Artagnan thinks her heartless enough to forsake him in his time of need…he'll never look twice at her again. And he will be safer for it.

Constance steels herself, making her voice as hard as she can, even as her heart sinks like a stone in her chest.

"Tell him…" she licks her lips "tell him that I am not his wife, that he should call on me so." something flashes across the girls face too fast for her to see, but Constance continues, making her tone dismissive. "I have other things I must be doing." Before the girl can protest, Constance is shutting the door, leaning heavily against the other side, her legs weak.

* * *

"_Shoot me and you will never see Constance Bonacieux alive again." Milady's voice is smug as she turns to face them, and D'Artagnan feels his stomach drop. _

"_What have you done to her?" he demands, rushing forward "Constance has _nothing_ to do with this" letting himself be held back by Athos, D'Artagnan glares at her, hissing "If you've hurt her…"_

"_Oh, young love. So touching." Milady mocks him. _

"_I warned you there would be a final reckoning between us, Athos. Treville! I'll be waiting with her in the Rue Saint-Jacques in one hours' time. Send them. No-one else"_

_Watching her leave, D'Artagnan slumps in Athos' hold, his heart beating her name as he turns Milady's words over in his mind. _

_A final reckoning. And she is striking at them all. Dread fills his stomach, but he straightens up with grim determination. Whatever happens, Constance will _not_ be harmed._

* * *

Constance can't stop pacing.

She has never hated her confinement more than she has today. That morning when Madeleine had breathlessly relayed the events of the night before to her, Constance had trembled with the effort to stay still; to feign disinterest while her mind screamed at her to shake the girl, to demand more information, to run to the Garrison _herself_.

But she had been acutely aware of her husband's eyes on them, watching their conversation from his place at the table. He had sniffed disdainfully after Constance saw Madeleine to the door "well it looks like the musketeer doesn't need _my _help to get himself killed."

She bit her tongue until she drew blood, forcing herself to remain silent as her husband looked on smugly, almost daring her to speak.

It's like her nightmares have become reality—Bonacieux keeping her trapped in place when D'Artagnan is out there somewhere, hurting and most likely cursing her very existence; and she can't do anything. There is no way for her to find out what is happening outside these four walls.

She wants to _scream._

She wants to run outside and find him, bring him to her home, to do _anything_ that will make the worry gnawing at her stomach go away. She searches for a task that she can do but everything is spotless—cleaned to within an inch of its life in her frenzy to keep moving, to stop _thinking. _

Everything except for _his_ room. She turns to look at the closed door, considering.

Grabbing hold of the door handle, Constance hesitates for a moment, steeling herself before opening it quickly.

It's empty.

As it should be. But she had half expected him to be in there, waiting for her. She hasn't been in D'Artagnan's room since…_that_ day, keeping the door firmly shut as though to preserve what they'd had within those four walls. The memory of their trysts had rendered it almost sacred in her mind, but it is just a room.

A small, plain room growing stale with disuse.

Hurrying over to the window, Constance throws it open, coughing out what feels like half a lung as the influx of fresh air sends dust flying into her face.

Gathering fresh linens, she makes quick work of the room—D'Artagnan had been nothing if pragmatic, keeping his belongings to a minimum—stripping down the bed and dusting down all visible surfaces. The work keeps her mind occupied, for a time, until she feels it.

Something sharp stabs at her hand while she's tucking in the new sheets, and she draws it out to see a pinprick of blood welling up on her index finger. Lifting up the mattress, she sucks in a sharp breath when she sees the silver brooch; fashioned into the shape of a simple flower.

Picking up the brooch deferentially, she runs her fingers gently over the edges, watching as the tiny red gemstone in the centre glints in the sunlight. She remembers the day she first saw it—D'Artagnan had come with her to market and they'd taken a detour past the jewellers.

"_You've been staring at that brooch for five minutes now" _he'd sounded amused _"why don't you buy it?"_

"_Well it's not a necessity, is it? Come on." _

He must have gone back to get it for her, Constance realises, sitting down heavily on the bed. And what had she done in return? Broken his heart before he had the chance to give it to her. She closes her fist around the brooch, feeling the edges cut into her palm as though it might alleviate the pain in her heart; the pain he must have felt at the words she'd fashioned to hurt him most.

And suddenly it's like he's right there beside her; like he never left, his memory drawing her close and keeping her safe in his arms. She was wrong before. This isn't _just _a room—it never can be, not if she closes her eyes. In this room, where she had loved him so, where they had laughed and danced, and kissed and made love. If she closes her eyes, she can almost imagine being happy again.

* * *

_Constance isn't here. _

_There's no sign of her at all in the empty street and in the split second that he manages to feel relief, his stomach tightens at the realisation that this is was a set up. _

Well. It's one less thing to worry about, _he thinks, following the others into the fray with gusto. _

_With Milady's men having _considerately_ cleared the street of its residents, they don't have to watch out for any innocents and the fight doesn't take very long. He wants to leave Athos to his business, but the first question he asks makes him pause. _

"_Why did you say you had Constance Bonacieux?" _

"_That was the plan" Milady shrugs "but she didn't…cooperate." her eyes glitter maliciously as she stares at D'Artagnan. "I planned for this eventuality. Constance is at home." _

"_While you were busy fighting…well I'll just say that you might still be able to save her" her lips twist cruelly "if her flesh hasn't melted from her bones already."_

_D'Artagnan _runs.

* * *

"_Constance!"_ the shout filters through her consciousness slowly. Inhaling deeply, Constance sputters, eyes flying open and immediately stinging painfully. Blinking slowly, she looks around the room from her position on the floor. And then she freezes, because-

The room is on fire.

The room is on…fire. Constance stares at the flames in shock—it's almost beautiful— the sea of red, yellow and orange entwined with billowing black smoke and blazing with an intensity she's never seen before in her life.

"_Constance!"_ the shout comes again, and she springs into action.

Grabbing the blanket from the bed, Constance wraps it around herself, turning to try and find the door through the blaze. Seeing the vague outline of her escape, she ducks her head and charges forward, coming to a halt only when she hears the loud groaning above her.

Looking up, Constance barely manages to leap backward before the wooden beam falls, popping and cracking and sending sparks flying through the air; blocking the exit and trapping her within.

Terror seizes at her heart as she surveys the room, the fire surrounding her on all sides. She tries to scream, but only manages a few seconds before the smoke forces her to stop, her voice muffled within the roar of the flames and she brings the blanket over her face, breathing as shallowly as possible.

Someone is out there. Someone is looking for her, but how can she let them know where she is?

Spinning around frantically, Constance's eyes alight on the brooch, still on the bed, and she feels a grin pull at her lips. Tearing up a strip of the bedsheet, she bundles the brooch into it and gets as close to the door as she dares, the flames reaching for her, trying to lick at her skin. Squinting through the smoke, she looks for the opening, pulling her arm back and throwing the bundle through it to the other side.

It doesn't take long for him to find her.

She bundles herself up in the blanket while she waits, feels her shallow breaths get longer, deeper as her head begins to droop. She'll be out of here soon, so surely there's no harm in resting for a while…

There is an almighty crash, and she opens her eyes blearily to see a dark figure standing against blinding orange light, swimming in and out of focus. As she watches, he comes closer until she can see him mouth her name, falling to his knees in front of her and pressing a lingering kiss to her damp forehead.

"It's _you_" she sighs happily, reaching up to touch him. D'Artagnan's face is covered in soot and he is flushed and sweaty, his brow furrowed as he examines her.

And he is the most beautiful person she has ever seen.

Constance barely notices as he gathers her in his arms, wrapping the blanket more securely around her and carrying her through to the parlour. She can't stop staring up at him, taking in the grim set of his jaw as he makes his way through her house. "God _is _kind" she murmurs, nuzzling closer into his shoulder.

She's only vaguely aware of the crush of voices outside—screaming and the splash of water as people run to put the fire out— lifting her head only when D'Artagnan tries to set her down and clinging tighter to him. He tightens his arms imperceptibly around her and then let's go, grasping her hand instead.

"I'm right here, Constance" he reassures her "Aramis?" a waterskin is pressed to her lips and she finds herself gulping down the cool liquid, not caring as it dribbles down her chin. As the ringing in her ears abates, Constance becomes aware of another loud voice, in the crowd and she cringes.

Bonacieux is plowing his way through the crowd that surrounds them, stopping abruptly when he sees her. His eyes flick between the two of them, and D'Artagnan tries to step aside but she holds tightly to him and he stays, staring across at her husband as though issuing a challenge.

"Oh, my dear I was worried _sick!"_ Bonacieux rushes forward and crushes her in a hug as she sits, unmoving. Shifting as though to kiss her cheek, he hisses in her ear "the Cardinal is still my patron. Now hug me and make it look convincing."

Glancing at those around her, Constance disentangles her fingers from D'Artagnans, and brings her arms up haltingly to circle her husband. D'Artagnan averts his eyes, his jaw clenching, but she sees Aramis at her side frowning thoughtfully.

"Good girl" Bonacieux murmurs and then, louder "I thought I'd _lost _you!"

D'Artagnan snorts and Bonacieux stiffens, pulling away to glare at him. "Excuse me Monsieur, does the near death of my wife amuse you?"

He shrugs noncommittally, gesturing across the street to where Constance can see rolls of fabric from the storeroom. "I just find your concern hard to believe when you can brave fire for _fabric_" he spits the word "but not your wife."

Bonacieux flushes, scrambling to his feet "now see here-!"

"Oh, leave him be" Aramis interrupts smoothly, stepping forward to clasp Bonacieux's shoulder. "A man must always try to protect his business" her husband is nodding along furiously and doesn't see the sly, almost feral grin that spreads across Aramis's face. "Besides, without the Cardinal to pay you, such a _fine selection_ of fabrics would be hard to come by again."

Constance blinks.

Bonacieux has gone pale, his mouth opening and closing without a sound and Aramis winks at her over his shoulder.

"…what" Constance manages

"Oh yes. I think it was…two months ago now?" Aramis says "we bumped into your husband at the palace after he'd collected his last payment. Isn't that right?" he nudges her husband cheerfully "you were in a _foul _mood that day. Didn't even stop to say hello!"

Aramis keeps talking but Constance can't hear him over the blood rushing in her ears. _Two months…_she remembers Madeleines first visit, remembers her husbands' anger, his talk of Red Guards and the throbbing pain of a bruise on her forehead…

"You've been threatening me with nothing?" her voice is raspy, and if it were possible, Bonacieux blanches even more.

Fumbling against the wall behind her, Constance pulls herself to her feet. She stumbles dizzily as she stands, grabbing hold of D'Artagnan's arm when he rushes forward to steady her. "Threatening..." D'Artagnan murmurs in her ear "Constance what are you talking about?" the concern in his voice makes tears well up in her eyes and she thinks again of isolation and heartache and _two months_.

Looking up at him, at the worry in his eyes and the confused tilt of his head, the words come pouring out of her, "he threatened you, D'Artagnan. The Cardinal was his patron and Bonacieux threatened to tell the Cardinal he heard you plotting his assassination If I didn't break your heart" her breath hitches, she sees comprehension dawn on his face and she rushes on, _needing_ to tell him the truth.

"He threatened you and I didn't mean it-what I said to you I didn't mean it, it was all a lie I did it to save you and-" she chokes back a sob and D'Artagnan shushes her, cupping her face in his hands and wiping her tears away.

In his eyes she sees only gentle kindness, and again she thinks _twomonthstwomonthstwomonths_, thinks of how she had almost forgotten what it was like to be held so softly and she grabs hold of his hand on her face, keeping it there. The corners of his lips quirk up in the beginning of a smile and he presses a kiss to her forehead before grabbing her hand in his and turning to her husband.

"Is this true?" Bonacieux flinches at his tone but he draws himself taller, meeting D'Artagnan's unwavering stare with his own.

"I did" he shrugs "I did her a mercy. No-one would have faulted me if I threw her out on the street."

"So instead you _threatened _her. You threatened her and you hurt her," D'Artagnan lunges forward suddenly as though to strike him, "you _hurt her_" he repeats, stopping inches from Bonacieux's face. "And you would have let her _die_ in that fire today!"

Constance sees the way Aramis's arm tightens around Bonacieux's shoulders, sees the way D'Artagnan is looking at her husband and she steps forward, grasping at his arm. "D'Artagnan, don't" she pleads. "it's _over _now he can't hurt me anymore" he relaxes in her grip and she continues. "let's go."

They make it only a few steps when-

"What sort of life can he give you?" Bonacieux cries after them "a poor one! I could keep you in a veritable paradise!"

Constance freezes.

She turns around slowly, walking back over to him, D'Artagnan a reassuring presence at her back. There is desperation in her husband's eyes when he looks at her, but no affection. She thinks of the fabrics lining the wall across the street, of his pride and reputation. How she is worth less to him than his business.

"There are too many snakes in your paradise, Bonacieux." she says quietly. "I would rather live my life as a disgraced woman with D'Artagnan than spend another day taking a beating as your wife." D'Artagnan inhales sharply behind her but she doesn't pause, turning on her heel to leave.

The two of them walk in silence for a while. They must look a dreadful sight, but Constance doesn't care. Reaching out to thread her fingers through his, she glances up at D'Artagnan hesitantly. He looks troubled, but he glances down at her movement, quirking his eyebrow.

"I meant what I said to him. I'd rather be disgraced and with you than without…that is…" she looks away "that is…if you'll have me"

His expression softens and he exhales her name "of _course._" She searches his face for any resentment but finds only love.

"I know it'll take time to forgive me"

"There's nothing to forgive" he counters her indulgently.

"Even after all I've done-" she argues, and he cuts her off, turning suddenly to face her. Cupping her face in his hands, he kisses her soundly. His lips are chapped; he tastes of smoke and sweat, but she doesn't care. Because as his lips move against hers, as she reaches up and tangles her hands in his hair, losing herself in the sensation…she sees their future behind her eyelids. And it is beautiful.

"I love you" he says, pulling back "and you did it to protect me." His eyes are alight with happiness and he leans down to peck her once, twice, three times more. "The real question is: what did _I _do to deserve the love of the finest woman in all of France?"

Laughter bubbles up in her chest and Constance grins happily, freely for the first time in months. "Oh I don't know" she reaches up on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear, revelling in the thrill that goes through her when D'Artagnan grabs hold of her waist, keeping her held against him.

"Why don't you show me?"


End file.
